


ROUGH DRAFT ONLY Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys

by vox_in_socks



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Arranged Marriage, Creature Fic, Epistolary, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vox_in_socks/pseuds/vox_in_socks





	ROUGH DRAFT ONLY Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragons_and_angels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_and_angels/gifts).



[7]

Phil couldn’t remember the first time he met Tyler, but there was a photo in the Kessel family album. It showed Tyler tucked up on the Kessels’ couch, his little feet nowhere near the edge. At first all you saw was a mop of black hair crouched over a blanketed bundle, and then Tyler looked up at the camera, his funny red eyes widening with wonder and then disappearing into the biggest, goofiest grin Phil had ever seen. The dark head dropped again, nestling into the bundle—and that was Phil in the blanket on Tyler’s lap, not even a week old. You could tell Phil had been crying—his face looked wet and pruney—but he got real quiet and still for Tyler. You could see how careful Tyler was to support Phil’s head, how Phil gripped one of Tyler’s fingers eagerly, like it was his first wand. Then the photo looped, again and again. Phil liked it. 

He couldn't remember when his parents first told him about the contract, either. He cuddled between the two of them now on the very same couch, his rear end right where Tyler's once was, the album open across his lap. It just seemed like the contract was always standard knowledge in their family. Don't talk back to mom, keep a wary eye out for Grandpa Jim's Jelly-Brain Jinx, stop teasing your brother. "Don't forget the contract," he said softly, touching Tyler's happy face.

"The _magically binding_ contract," Phil's mom said, like there might be other, less daunting kinds. Phil wasn't sure what happened if you messed with a magically binding contract, but he had a bad feeling it might involve trolls. 

"The contract," he said with great solemnity, "dated back a thousand years," 

"One hundred and twenty-three," Phil's dad corrected, as if Phil hadn't heard it a billion times before. "And neither the Bozaks nor I are certain how it came about. The signatories are both long dead and unfortunately they didn't leave behind any helpful clues." 

"No clues," said Phil, shaking his head. Gotta have clues to solve a mystery. Like a mouldy old scroll stuck inside a hatstand or a talking oil painting, maybe. There was a portrait of old Uncle Leo in the hallway, but he spent his time playing Chopsticks and complaining about his aching head, and he sure had nothing useful to say about any long-forgotten Kessel crimes against dragons. Phil's dad liked to think his great-great-great did something, well, great but Phil's mom just raised a doubtful brow, since being magically bound to marry off your first-born to a monster did not sound like a reward for noble deeds. Phil couldn't help but agree: it definitely sounded more like punishment. And Phil hadn't even done anything wrong.

"Not that Tyler's a monster, honey," Mom reassured him, as her arm wrapped across his shoulders. "He's just a bit different. The Bozaks were really very apologetic about the whole thing. It came as a surprise to them too, and they can't break a magically binding contract any more than we can. We just all have to make the best of it."

"But are you sure they wouldn't prefer a girl?" Phil asked. That was the part that particularly confused him. His parents had read him more than a few bedtime tales as they curled up here on this very couch, and he'd noticed that the monsters usually preferred carrying off girls. The contract sounded awfully like a story from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. And they had a girl now, thanks to the arrival of Mandy. She was about the size of a peanut and Phil really didn't like to imagine her being kidnapped by a dragon, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. 

"I'm not certain that sort of thing matters to dragons," Mom replied vaguely. "And in any case, the contract very specifically mentions the first-born."

"That's you, bud," said Dad, ruffling Phil's hair. Amid his many trials as the eldest Phil seemed set to have Difficult Hair, just like his father. But that was okay. Phil's parents ran the best broomstick store in Wisconsin, and no self-respecting broomstick speacialist had tidy hair. 

"And until the wedding comes, you only have to see him once every seven years according to the contract," said Mom.

"Because seven is the most powerful magical number?" Phil asked.

"That's right," Mom said. "Just like the number of players on a Quidditch team."

"But you truly don't have anything to worry about, bud," said Dad. "The boy's not a real dragon, not like we read about in books. He may have been born with a few unusual traits, but he's mostly just like you and me. He'd honestly never hurt you—well, we'd never allow that, contract or no contract." 

"But Tyler struck us both as such a sweet little boy," said Mom. "And he was certainly very eager to meet you."

"It was the first time you stopped bellyaching since you were born," Dad said, in the kind of hushed tone that made Phil suspect it had been the most uncomfortable week of his parents' lives. It was hard to imagine how anyone could have been as noisy as his little brother Blake—he might be napping now, but give him five minutes—but Phil knew his dad was no liar. "We were at wit's end by the time the Bozaks Floo'd in with young Tyler."

"And they were feeling no better, because Tyler was absolutely frantic to find you," said Mom. "They told us he'd alway been a placid boy, that he wasn't even talking yet, and never caused trouble. They were worried he was a little slow."

"But the day you were born, he stole one of their house brooms and started flying south-"

"Not even two years old, and on an old Tinderblast of all things-" Mom broke in, like she was proud of the kid's derring-do. Phil's mom was kind of nuts about Quidditch.

"-and if you can believe it, he'd gotten nearly as far as the border before he was picked up by the Royal Canadian Broom-Mounted Police," Dad continued, shaking his head. "They're lucky the whole family wasn't taken into custody." He didn't seem nearly so impressed as Mom by this evidence of delinquency. Phil's dad always taught him to obey the law, and the most important law of all was the Statue of Secrecy. Phil imagined it looked a lot like the Statue of Liberty, only with a set of robes over her head. 

But there were more important things than secrecy, and Phil frowned in thought. "Canada won the World Cup."

"That they did," Mom said darkly. She was still really sad about America's loss in the quarters, but-

-but _Canada_. Steve Yzerman. Joe Sakic. _Wayne Gretsky_. Wow. Phil was gonna marry a Canadian.

"I want to be the police when I grow up!" he said, thrilling to the thought of chasing fugitive toddlers across land and sea. Blake was always up for a game of chasey, but he could barely walk. Phil wanted a friend who could fly.

"Oh, honey, no," Mom said, ruffling Phil's hair. "You're going to be a Quidditch star."

 

A letter arrived not long after, the first Phil had ever received, written on a crumpled piece of parchment smudged with ink splots:

> Dear Filip,
> 
> How are you? I hope you are good. Are you big now? Can you fly? I hope you can read. My big brother Justin is helping me write to you. Our mom says we are NOT ALLOWED to use her qwill becose we are TO MESSY. So please do not tell on us. I know you will not tell.
> 
> I hope you get this letter ok. Wrigley is mean and pecks me but he likes Justin so hopefilly you will get this letter. Do you like Cockroch Clusters? They are my favrite choclate bar even if Justin says they are yukky. I am sending you my Cockroch Clusters becose you are my best frend. Hopefilly Wrigley does not eat them. Choclate is bad for birds but good for peepl.
> 
> I miss you alot.
> 
> Love from Tyler.

Wrigley was a great horned owl according to Phil’s mom. His tufts made him look cross, but he turned out to be friendly and didn't bite anyone, not even Blake. He did not eat the Cockroach Clusters either but settled for a plump mouse instead, and Phil found himself in agreement with Tyler: Cockroach Clusters were excellent. Normally Phil was picky about food and hated trying anything new, but Tyler was clearly trustworthy. Even if Phil hadn't been missing Tyler a lot before—Phil's little brother and sister kept him so busy he didn't have much time to even think about the boy in the photo album—he suddenly wanted very badly to know everything about Tyler.

Phil felt particularly bad about asking his mom to read him the letter once he knew about Tyler's Statue of Secrecy, but she promised him she would write to Tyler's mom and explain everything. Phil's dad helped him bake a batch of Pop Cookies—Phil was skilled at stirring and an expert at licking the spoon—while Mom carefully printed the following:

> Dear Tyler,
> 
> Thank you very much for the Cockroach Clusters. They were delicious. I hope you will enjoy these Pop Cookies. Wrigley has promised not to eat any during the flight home. Mom says he prefers mice to honey. We have an owl too, a barn owl named Frank, but he is too old now to fly all the way to Canada. It's sad that you live a long, long way away. Frank is okay but I would rather have a dog. My parents say dogs don't always get along with magic, that it makes them too jumpy. 
> 
> I hope you don't get into trouble about your mom's quill. I am very well and getting bigger every day and I love flying around the house on my trainer broom, but unfortunately I still need help with my reading and writing. Mom says she is writing to your mom to explain and Dad says he is including a special Muggle pencil along with the cookies. It's easy to write and draw with a pencil and you can use the squashy bit at the end to fix spelling mistakes. I still make a lot of mistakes, which is why Mom is writing this letter. Also, my name is Phil, just like my Dad. Sometimes my Dad takes me to watch football games but I like Quidditch best of all. My mom and I listen to WWN but they don't broadcast enough matches here because most people prefer Quodpot. Isn't that funny? You're lucky you live in Canada even if it is far away. Did you listen to the World Cup? I was still small then, but I remember the match went for five days and WWN played it all. I kept score of Mario Lemieux's goals and filled up a whole page. Mom likes Maximus Brankovitch III the best but I would much rather be a Chaser than a Seeker. Mom thinks America can go further in 1994 but I hope Canada wins again. Mom is shaking her head but I am making her write that down anyway because it is true.
> 
> I want to know if you can fly. Do you have wings like a real dragon? Mom says that is a rude question but I am curious. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Broomsticks are best but wings would be good too even if it would be hard to fit robes over them.
> 
> Love from your buddy,  
>  Phil

Phil could hardly wait to hear back from Tyler. He'd never had a friend before, much less a best one. He didn't quite like to sign off as Tyler's best friend, since that might make Blake feel left out, but in his secret self he knew that Tyler was special. He even had a contract that said so.

> Dear Phil,
> 
> I'm sorry I got your name wrong. Thank you for the Pop Cookies and the pencil. They're really good. I hope this letter is easier to read. Luckily I did not get into too much trouble and my parents say I'm allowed to write to you so long as it is okay with your parents. Justin is helping me again, and Mom and Dad are helping him. I want to learn my lessons fast so that I can do it by myself. Justin goes to a local Muggle school here in Regina but I'm not allowed. My parents home-school me. Are you home-schooled too? Sometimes it's lonely but Justin tells me everything he learns. He says they play weird versions of Gobstones and Exploding Snap there as well as something called Game Boy. Dad made Justin promise not to take our Wizarding Chess set for show and tell. Do you like chess? It's my favourite game, although I'm still figuring it out. 
> 
> I'm glad Wrigley was polite to you. I would be really cross with him otherwise. One of our Muggle neighbours has a pet poodle but it runs away when it sees me. The neighbours don't see me at all. We have very good wards here.
> 
> I'm glad you like Quidditch. It is the best sport in the world. I want to play for the Moose Jaw Meteorites when I grow up. Dad says I could be a good Seeker because I can find anything lost in our house, but I want to play Chaser with you. Our cousins live in Moose Jaw so we see a lot of matches. I hope you can come too one day. The Meteorites are the best. I am sending you my signed poster of "Killer" Gilmour. He told me small players can still make great Chasers. I know he is right but I hope I grow tall anyway. Ironbellies are supposed to be the biggest dragons of all but you wouldn't know it to see me. You can ask me anything you like. Unfortunately I don't have wings but I did set fire to the drapes once when I got the hiccups.
> 
> Do you like riddles? Dad told me this one: What flies without wings?
> 
> I miss you,  
>  Love from Tyler

By the time Phil turned seven he had received 186 letters from Tyler. By letter #11 Tyler had taken over handwriting duty from his brother and by letter #34 Phil no longer required help either reading them or replying. Sometimes Phil's mom muttered about Tyler's 'obsessive tendencies' but even she had to admit it was good for both boys' literacy skills.

Along with the letters, Phil had received eight scarves, five beanies ( _touques_ , Tyler insisted), eleven pairs of gloves, fourteen sets of socks, endless bad riddles, countless delicious cookies and one Game Boy. Phil couldn't understand how to use the Game Boy, but Blake loved it, and Phil loved the baked goods. The clothing varied in size and quality as Tyler slowly learned how to knit ( _Mom says it keeps me out of trouble_ ) but the colors were always Meteorites blue and white. Phil's favorite team was the Racine Jobberknolls—it was important to stay loyal to the home side even if they might be, as Tyler pointed out repeatedly, complete trash—but he liked wearing the clothes Tyler made for him. They had a particular scent to them, like fresh gravel on a Quidditch pitch. It made him feel snuggly and safe.

"Is he really only eight and not eighty? Does he think we let you go starving and naked?" Phil's mom said in exasperation one fall morning, after Wrigley struggled through the window with an enormous crocheted quilt and a batch of maple syrup banana muffins.

"Dragons," said Phil's dad with a shrug, not looking over his newspaper. "Who knows? Kid probably has a lot of trouble maintaining his core body temperature. Maybe he figures everyone's like that. It does make you wonder why their ancestors emigrated to Canada of all places."

"I suppose they hoped leaving the Ukraine would put an end to the family curse," she said, feeding Wrigley a fat spider. "And it did for a while, until Tyler, poor kid."

As he wrapped himself up in Tyler's latest handiwork and took a bite of muffin, Phil didn't think Tyler was poor at all. Tyler was funny and smart and the best friend a guy could have, and if he wanted to keep Phil warm and fed, Phil was all for it. He opened Tyler's letter, read the first few lines, and choked on his muffin. "Mom!"

"No yelling at the breakfast table," she said, slurping her coffee as Wrigley fluffed his feathers and stared at Phil sternly. "What is it, hon?" 

"Uh, Tyler says he's coming to stay for Christmas," said Phil. "For serious?"

"Dead serious," she said. "It's been over seven years since the impri- since you were born. I think the recent surge in gifts is a sign of what to expect if we don't get you boys squared away."

"Time's ticking," Dad agreed, putting down _Which Broomstick?_ to steal one of Phil's muffins. "Mm, these are great. Mitch Bozak's a good baker—I gotta pick up my game. Hey, this reminds me of a funny joke: So a monkey, a crup, and a bowtruckle are racing to the top of a coconut tree. Who gets the banana first, the monkey, the crup, or the bowtruckle?"

"Who?" Phil asked warily.

"None of them," Dad said. "Bananas don't grow on coconut trees."

"Aw, Dad," said Blake, but Mandy giggled. She had terrible taste in jokes.

"You make sure and pass that one on to Tyler," said Dad. "That one's a winner." He polished off his breakfast, then pressed kisses all round before heading off to open up at Sonic Broom.

 

As Christmas approached, Phil felt both sick with excitement and almost unbearably shy, because what if Tyler didn’t like him? What if Phil wasn’t the best friend Tyler was expecting but just a complete disappointment? Tyler was more than a year older than him and so obviously cool and talented, and Phil was just—Phil. He was terrible at meeting new people. 

Blake just rolled his eyes and told him to go back to sleep and stop being so dumb. Sometimes Blake acted like he was the big brother, not Phil.

Usually they shared their bunk beds with cousins at holiday time, but this Christmas they'd be sharing with Tyler and Justin. Their upstairs bedroom had a high, cobwebby ceiling, a roaring fireplace, and a whole league's worth of peeling Quidditch posters. Their dad put out fresh bed linen and their mom made them sweep out all the dust bunnies and dead spiders—Blake found a _Loony Nonby_ he'd been searching for for months, and Phil unearthed a piece of suspiciously green toast—and by the time the Bozak brothers were due to arrive Phil was too tired to worry anymore.

The family room was wreathed in holly garlands and glittering candles, and a huge Christmas tree shimmered in the corner, decked in baubles and berries and candy canes. The fireplace was cleared for Floo travel and Dad set out mugs of hot chocolate and foaming butterbeer, as well as a platter of turkey sandwiches and mince pies for the travelers. Blake and Mandy seemed torn between staring at the empty fireplace and sneaking some food, but Phil felt too sick to do either. Celestina Warbeck's festive warbling didn't help.

"Kathy's meeting the boys at the Wizarding Arrivals at Truax Field and then they'll Floo in from there," Dad said in reply to Mandy's fifteenth question. "They should be here any minute. Blake, please don't crawl up the chimney, we don't want an accident."

"Dad, are they really taking an airplane?" Blake asked. "Are they sure it's safe?"

"It's the safest form of Muggle travel," Dad said. "I understand Whizz Charter Airlines hasn't had a single crash, and they've been flying Muggle-style for years."

"It doesn't seem normal," said Blake. "I don't understand how they stay in the air if they're not using magic." 

"The basic principles of flight are the same for airplanes and broomsticks," said Dad. He grabbed Mandy's trainer as it drifted by and transfiguring it into a propeller aircraft, waving it around in a way that was probably supposed to make sense, except how the plane was upside down. Dad never lost a chance for homeschooling, although their mother's lessons were usually easier to understand. "Finding the balance between lift and gravity to keep the broom in the air, finding an _imbalance_ between thrust and drag to make the broom go. The difference is: we use magic to gain thrust and Muggles use gas."

Mandy belched mightily in demonstration. "'Scuse me," she said, putting her filched butterbeer down with an impish grin.

"Oh well, better out now before company arrives," Dad sighed, letting the spluttery aircraft fly in loops around the room. "Not that the addition of two young boys is likely to raise the tone of this household."

"I think they're coming!" Blake said, and sure enough the fireplace was turning an eerie green. Phil took a step backwards, wondering if it wasn't too late to go to the bathroom and maybe stay there for a week.

"Give them room, guys," Dad warned, as Blake and Mandy peered at the glowing brickwork as if they'd never seen anyone use the Floo before. 

There was a burst of emerald fire and then a boy of eleven stepped out of the fireplace. He had neat black hair and pair of perfectly ordinary brown eyes set in a white, tired face, and he carried a small case, a gift basket, and a ragged looking broomstick.

"You must be Justin," said Dad, patting his shoulder. "Come and grab a seat while we wait for the others."

"Thank you, sir," said Justin, putting his gear down and sinking into the nearest armchair. Blake immediately took one cushy arm while Mandy scrambled onto the other to introduce themselves.

Phil was more concerned about the next flash of fire, which blazed golden-hot across the hearth and filled the room with the stink of sulfur.

"Don't worry," said Justin, sounding weary. "Ty always Floos funny."

A second pale, dark-haired boy stepped onto the hearth, carrying a bag and a broomstick of his own.

The sulfurous smell receded and seemed to take all the oxygen with it.

Tyler looked up, straight at Phil where he hunched in the doorway. Then he dropped everything, ran over and smiled, just as wide and joyous as Phil had secretly hoped for. Phil held open his arms and Tyler tumbled into them, bringing back the air and life Phil hadn't known he was lacking.

"Hi," said Tyler, his voice muffled against Phil's neck.

"Hey, buddy," said Phil. "You miss me?"

By the time his mother Floo'd in, Phil felt just about strong enough to face his curious family again, although if Dad didn't stop humming kissing songs Phil was running away and taking Tyler and the mince pies with him.

 

Once they were all full as ticks, Phil's parents shoo'd them upstairs to wash up and get ready for bed. Mandy insisted on giving the tour, while Blake provided color commentary and Phil shuffled shyly behind, his hand in Tyler's. Phil thought it was maybe a bit babyish to hold hands with a boy he just met (even if it was the second time around) but Tyler didn't seem keen to let go any time soon and Phil sort of liked it no matter how much Blake snickered.

Justin's hand was in the firm grip of Mandy, who showed him her own room, a cosy little space with a four-poster, piles of moving picture books, and a life-sized poster of Debbie Muntz glowering everyone into submission. "I'm gonna be just like Debbie when I'm big," said Mandy, her eyes glowing.

"I'm amazed she can sleep at all with Muntz staring at her all night," said Justin, after all four boys bribed Mandy into her PJs and under the covers with a promise to braid her hair in the morning.

"You think that's hard, wait'll you try sleeping in this room," said Blake proudly, showing the Bozaks where to stow their stuff.

"Yeah, uh, the Meteorites don't exactly get along with Racine," Phil said. "Go figure." Both teams were fully represented on the bedroom walls and played non-stop thanks to Blake tearing the Snitch off one corner of Gianni Fedele's poster and hiding it in their underwear drawer. 

"So you guys have a full Chasing line in the family?" asked Justin, hopping around as he pulled off his shoes. Tyler was circling the room, sticking his nose into everything as he dragged Phil along behind him. Good thing they cleaned up.

"Heck no," Blake scoffed. He shoved some stray action figures off one of the lower bunks with his bat, making room for Justin to wriggle out of his jeans. "I'm a D-man all the way."

"That's the way, bud," said Phil, showing Tyler the closet. Lotta blue and white in there. Tyler grinned his approval. "Someone's gotta keep the Bludgers away."

"'Sides, Mandy's still a kid," said Blake, from his lofty age of five. "Mom wants her off the trainer broom, but Dad says she's gotta wait a bit longer 'cause she's so small."

"Mom's real serious about her Quidditch," Phil warned, and Tyler squeezed his hand even tighter. Tyler knew all this already, but it might be news to Justin. Phil just hoped there weren't any fights at Christmas lunch, although it was probably too much to wish for. Last year they were scrubbing cranberry sauce off the ceiling.

"Yup, she coaches little league," said Blake. "All the other parents hate her 'cause she's louder and bossier than any of 'em."

"Mom's a blast," Phil said. He drew Tyler down onto his own bunk bed nearest the window. "We Floo all over the Midwest. This is our first break in months. Mom says she's gonna convert the next American generation to Quidditch or die trying."

"Your mom'd approve of Pictou Island," said Justin. He lay on his bunk, his cheek propped on his palm. "Quidditch lessons are compulsory the first two years and most kids keep going the whole seven. It's only my first year and I'm already exhausted. The whole school's Quidditch-mad."

"And that's saying something seeing as how we live near Quidditchtown," said Tyler quietly, kicking his own sneakers off. It was the most he'd said since they'd arrived. And he still wouldn't let Phil go. Maybe he felt shy too.

"Moose Jaw: Centre for Quidditch Excellence," Justin intoned, sounding just like Dick Irvin Jr. on WWN. "Yeah, I thought I had a clue what I was in for, but no way. Pictou puts even Moose Jaw to shame. I'm amazed they leave us any spare time for normal classes."

"Pictou Island's a Wizarding school, right?" asked Blake. He sprawled across the rug in front of the fire, wriggling into his PJs."You gotta tell us all about it. We don't get to go to school yet. So unfair. Mom and Dad say our magic's too unperdictable for the local elementary."

"Yeah, uh, lotta wandless stuff goes on around here," said Phil. There was maybe a rain of teaspoons in the back garden one time, not that he was admitting anything. 

"Mandy's the worst," said Blake. "Say goodbye to any Chocolate Frogs you got stashed on you. She's got Accio aaaall figured out."

"Mom and Dad can't decide what's more important to pound into her brain, secrecy or honesty," Phil said. "Who knows."

"Too late for either," said Blake. "I think she's really a Nogtail in disguise."

"She's, uh, good though," Phil said, in case Tyler was starting to worry maybe the Kessels had some weird stuff in their family tree too. Tyler's nose was rooting around somewhere behind Phil's ear, which seemed plenty weird for one lifetime and ticklish besides. Hopefully the other boys didn't notice.

"Ty, you wanna let Phil up?" Justin asked pointedly, so okay, he noticed.

"You can use the bathroom first," Phil offered, as Blake sing-songed "Guests first!" like he was even going to bother brushing his teeth any time this year, the grub.

Tyler held up their joined hands and Phil noticed for the first time just how sharp Tyler's nails were. He was being very careful with them. After a long moment Tyler said, "Let's use it together."

"Well, okay, bud," Phil said, "but there's only one basin. No cobbing."

"No cobbing," promised Tyler, but Phil didn't believe him. Tyler looked like he was all elbows.

They crowded into the bathroom, shoving and giggling, not quite able to meet one another's eyes. Tyler didn't want a shower but Phil desperately needed a pee, so he reclaimed his hand, ignoring Tyler's grumbling. Tyler changed out of his travel clothes and into a set of Meteorites PJs. He grumbled some more when Phil washed his hands and scrubbed his neck and behind his ears. Phil didn't know what Tyler was sniffing back there, but he figured he'd better be vigilant. They brushed their teeth, grinning at each in the mirror like a pair of foaming rabid Jarveys. It was easier to watch Tyler's reflection than it was to look at Tyler himself.

"Time's up," Justin called, banging on the bathroom door and booting them both out. "Geez, I might as well've stayed at schooll. What a mess."

Back in the bedroom, Blake was hanging limp over the side of his top bunk, already half asleep but with strength enough left in him to warn, "Philly snores."

"Bet Justin snores worse," said Tyler, hovering while Phil banked the fire.

"How'd you get the scar on your chin?" Blake asked

"Scratched myself," said Tyler, flexing his fingers. Phil could swear the nails came out like a cat's. "I gotta keep 'em short."

"Cool," said Blake, his eyes drooping shut. "Don't scratch Philly."

"I won't," Tyler promised. 

Justin returned, giving an almighty yawn as he helped Phil turn down the lanterns. "Light or no light, guys?"

"No light," said Tyler, and Justin complied, dimming the last of the lamps. By the time he crawled into the bunk under Blake's, the room was lit only by the fire's embers and the waning moon peering between the curtains.

Phil still had a shadow. He looked at his lower bunk, neatly made for his guest. Tyler was aggressively ignoring it. "Kinda guessing you want to share?"

"Can we?" asked Tyler, tugging at the back of Phil's nightshirt. "I get cold sometimes."

"Ty, give it a rest," Justin groaned from the other side of the room. Phil could practically feel Tyler sinking into a puddle of disappointment behind him.

It was a chill, clear night, with a blanket of fresh snow on the ground. Be nice to have company. Like the dog Mom wouldn't let them have. "Sure, bud," Phil said finally, grabbing a spare pillow and hauling himself into bed. "No problem."

"Awesome." Tyler clambered up the ladder and nestled in beside him, and yeah, Phil must've been nuts to think Tyler would be too cool for him. Tyler was a giant puppy.

 

By Christmas Day it felt like Justin and Tyler had been a part of the family forever. They staged epic Quidditch battles in the attic, practising their feints and shimmies for hours, then collapsed in front of the fire playing Donkey Kong and Exploding Snap while they consumed their weight in sandwiches and pumpkin juice and played The Weird Sisters as loud as they liked. Mandy was in her element, forcing them to learn the Harlem Shuffle and demanding live re-enactments from her Martin Miggs comics. Justin made the best Miggs, since he had more Muggle experience than the rest of them put together plus an atrocious French accent. "Some of the classes at Pictou Island are in French," he said, after reducing them once again to hysterics, "so I don't understand why I'm getting worse. At least my Latin's improving?"

They all loved hearing about Pictou Island, which seemed a far more exciting prospect than stodgy old Salem Institute, where most magical American kids wound up. Phil and Blake were already dreading the spectre of school-mandated Quodpot. It wasn't a bad game, honestly, but it just wasn't Quidditch. There was something very weird about destroying a perfectly good Quaffle. "At least it's not as bad as the Koldovstoretz kids in Russia," said Justin. "I hear they play Quidditch on uprooted trees."

"And they don't replant them," said Tyler disapprovingly. Tyler was very fond of trees.

Not that Justin got much play in Nova Scotia, thanks to vicious House competition for the school's Quidditch Cup. First years didn't get a look-in at all. "But my buddy Loops might make the Sawbridge team next year," he said, as he knelt to take aim at Phil's second best Gobstone. "Sawbridge hasn't won the Cup since 1982 and we need a decent Chaser now that Savard's flown off to join the Fitchburg Finches. Gorsemoor's had it all their way for years, but I think Loops might make the difference for Sawbridge."

"Loops is a Uke like us," said Tyler. He was lazing on the floor playing Gargoyle's Quest with his head in the small of Phil's back. Phil had a bad feeling they were both about to get splashed with Gobstone muck if Justin made this shot.

"Yeah, me and Loops are teaching the Pictou house elves how to make pumpkin pierogies," said Justin, making a squinty face. 

"But you can't cook," said Blake, who had bravely taken the blame when the Bozaks accidentally flooded the kitchen with borshch. Blake didn't like to see them sent home early and it wasn't like anyone would deny a five year old Christmas no matter what the provocation.

"Can't aim either," Phil crowed, as Justin missed his mark and left a clear path for Phil's shooter. Justin was going down.

"I hope I get sorted into Gorsemore," said Tyler wistfully. 

"Sorry, Ty, you're a Clagg for sure," said Justin. "All the lazy ones end up in Clagg."

For that insult, Phil launched his shooter at Justin's favorite duck, scoring a direct hit and a spray of Clabbert pus in Justin's face.

 

Various Kessels and cousins Floo'd and flew in for Christmas lunch, bearing platters of smoked ham and roasted turkey and great cauldrons full of eggnog. There were flurries of kisses and hugs, terrible impromptu caroling, as well as a great pile-up of presents under the tree. The kids grew giddy on mulled wine fumes while their tummies bulged with pudding and mince pies. 

Phil loved a raucous family shaker at Christmas time but he wasn't sure how Tyler would take it. Phil's relatives were brimming with undeniable curiosity about the newcomers to the family and while he figured his mom had warned everyone not to stare, that wasn't going to stop the likes of Auntie Agnes from grilling them.

Tyler took it all in stride though, charming the grandmas with his crafting skills and talking herbs, vegetables and fertilizer with the uncles. Phil had had a great many letters to learn all of Tyler's interests, but Tyler's ease with the grown-ups was a surprise. Even when Uncle Balthazar straight up asked Tyler if he made special 'contributions' to the Bozaks' garden beds, Tyler just shook his head and smiled sweetly, showing off his snaggly teeth. 

Discussion only grew heated at the dinner table when Uncle Ben got tipsy and declared for Krum, but he was soon shouted down by the majority; no Kessel worth the name had time for a selfish Seeker who couldn't keep score. Phil's cousin David had charge of the kids' table, keeping order with an iron fist instead of magic. Dave went to Catholic Central in Detroit and turned out to be the only Squib in the entire family; he was an even greater source of fascination for the oldies than Tyler. Dave didn’t seem the least bit fragile to Phil—he was taller and tougher than Phil could ever dream of growing—but try telling that to the grown-ups; Dave got spoilt and cosseted like crazy, and Mandy adored him. 

"Yo, Canadian contingent!" said Dave, looking Justin and Tyler up and down. "You two must kick ass on ice, yeah?"

"We can skate okay," Justin replied, although by the look of his straining belt he could barely move.

Tyler shrugged. "Didn't bring our gear though."

"No problem," said Dave. "We'll get you sorted. Uncle Phil, can you check in with Coach Suter, see if we're still good to use the rink today?"

"Way ahead of you, Davey," said Dad, gnawing on a drumstick. "He's gonna swing by soon and take you fellas off our hands."

"Sweet."

"Coach Bob's in business with my parents," Phil whispered to Tyler. "He sells Muggle stuff, but he's cool."

"Dave, Tyler's really not supposed to be out," said Mom. "You'll be careful?"

"I'm a rolling stone, Aunt Kathy," said Dave. "Can't hold me back. Let's get the kid rugged up, slap on a ski mask and a set of goggles. No one'll notice a thing. And if they do, we'll just tell 'em he's got the flu."

"I've heard that one before," Tyler whispered to Phil, but neither of them wanted to talk Dave out of a game.

Phil hadn't set foot out of the house since midwinter, so it was startling to see Tyler in daylight. In the house Tyler looked ashen, almost sickly, but when he turned his face to the sun his skin gleamed like slate and his eyes were two shiny new Quaffles. His shaggy hair turned out to be deepest, darkest chocolate, not black at all, and with gloves on you couldn't tell he had claws at all. 

Coach Bob didn't bat an eye—having two wizard kids had kind of broken him in the hard way—and after sharing an eggnog with the Kessels he carted the kids off in his minivan to Capitol Ice.

The Suters were already suited up—Garrett, who was Phil's age, plus his big brother Ryan and their uncle Gary, and a whole bunch of other young skaters besides—and Mandy was quick off the block, gliding into the fray and brandishing her tiny hockey stick like the most innocent goon ever. Tyler stared around the empty benches of the arena like he'd never skated indoors before. Phil was beginning to suspect Tyler didn't get out much at all.

Coach Bob just shook his head as he helped fit the Bozaks into skates. "Can't believe she's only three. Geez louise. That girl's going to the Olympics, I'm telling you now."

"Less talk, more hackey," said Dave. "Come on, boys, show us whatcha got."

Justin turned out to be smooth, and Tyler even better. By the time Phil laid out on the ice and started passing the puck straight to Tyler's blade, Coach Bob looked ready to cry. "Such a waste of god-given talent," he said mournfully, when Phil deked around him to net a sixth goal. "You boys were born for the Show. Merry freakin' Christmas"

"What show's he talking about?" Tyler asked, as he wrapped his arms around Phil for a celebration. Tyler was always up for cuddles.

"Dunno," said Phil. "Must be some hockey thing."

"Show some respect, losers," said their left wing, Dave. "Coach Suter was part of the Miracle on Ice."

"Miracles are what Muggles call magic," Tyler said knowledgeably, and Phil gave him a fist bump.

"Canadians and their brooms," said Dave, hanging his head in disgust. "You're just lucky I'm kind enough to spare you my curling jokes. Mandy, I love you, sweet girl, but you still gotta take five minutes for biting."

 

By the time Justin and Tyler had to go home to Regina, Tyler had moved every last scarf and hat he'd ever made for Phil up to the top bunk they shared, arranging them in some mysterious fashion into a deep, gravel-scented nest of white and blue.

It was just as well, so Blake wouldn't see Phil cry himself to sleep.

[14]

> Dear Phil,
> 
> Happy Birthday! (Like I'd ever forget.) Hope you like the cake—I think it's Dad's best yet. There's nothing weird in it, don't worry. Make sure you don't let that dirtbag Johnson get any. I'm sorry your getting so much shit. A D-man's supposed to look out for the team, not let his best Chaser get concussed! What an asshole!! He's probably just jealous your such a good flyer. Send Blake after him! What are little brothers good for otherwise. (NOTHING sez Justin.)
> 
> The first years are still staring some, but I just do my Dark Lord impersonation and send them all packing. Threats of dragon pox work pretty good too. The teachers never know who to tell off, them or me! Whatever, happens every year and I'm used to it now. Ignore the lookyloos and make the best of each day, Mom says. Easy for her! Lucky I'm a gentleman. Come exam time I'll do a roaring trade in nail clippings if Mme Laflamme doesn't catch me. I can't believe how many kids fall for it!! Haven't they seen my report cards? My nails are more likely to give them athlete's foot than straight Os. 
> 
> I'm still waiting to see if I make the Clagg line this year. The competition's so tight! Every single kid here's been raised on the Legend of '90. They all want to be stars. Mom reckons she fears for the future of Canadian wizardry—the Muggles will just walk in and take over one day while we're all flying around chasing balls. But what a way to go! You should see some of these guys. Did you read the bit about Crosby in the latest _Stickhandling_? Holy shit, she's awesome. (But a dirty rotten cheater, they don't mention that ha ha!!) Too bad she's in Sawbridge. I wish she was on our team. Wait, no I don't, I'd never make the team if she was—Sid is a one-woman Chaser line. I'll send you my copy. (Sorry she's not blonde.)
> 
> Pricey's still growing but I think he'll make full-time goalie. He's such a chill guy, real funny and mellow. You'd like him. If only we had a decent Seeker. Nealer still jokes how I should be Seeker since dragons like shiny shit. Ha ha, so funny I'm dying. Good thing I've got a tough hide. He's such a brat and thinks he's hot shit, but he's got good hands so I forgive him. (But if he makes the line and I don't, I might murder him in his sleep!! The kid needs a keeper and I don't mean a goalie.)
> 
> Speaking of, how's the roommate situation? Don't let him sit on my favourite toad.
> 
> Okay, I'd better sign off since I've still got two feet to write for Ghoul Studies—wish me luck! (Maybe I should bite my nails??)
> 
> Can't wait until Christmas. Your definately coming, right? Meteorites v Stormers, going to be awesome.
> 
> Miss you heaps,  
>  Love Tyler

> Dear Tyler,
> 
> Thanks for the cake (outstanding, would eat again!) and for the new touque (how did you guess my head had grown another three sizes? Oh yeah, might have been that Bludger to the skull I mentioned.) I bet you're already top of your Art class. Don't you dare cut your claws, how else would you crochet so fast AND scare away all your fans?
> 
> Jack's not so bad, I guess. Whatever. My fault for not paying enough attention. We had lunch together today. I think he just gets annoyed when Mom gets her heckle on at matches. You know what she's like. It's not like his parents are exactly quiet, though. Mom's definitely holding the Salem record for pitch invasions, but the Johnsons are pretty enthusiastic. Still, we Quidditch players have to stick together around here at Quodpot Central—just to lay claim to the practice pitch if nothing else. That's what I tell myself anyways. You're lucky jinxes bounce right off you. Jack Skille got me with another Pimple Jinx the other day (like I need any help there!) so I'm not exactly brimming with team spirit right now. It's lucky Wheels is good at brewing Boil-Cure Potion because I go through a whole lot of the stuff. Wheels attributes his excellent Potions grades to me. 
> 
> Don't encourage Blake! He's fitting in fine so far (well, apart from being a Quidditch geek like the rest of us) and I don't want him getting into any trouble with the teachers. Did I tell you Coach Setright called me uncoachable? I don't even know what that means but I know I don't want him getting any dumbass ideas about Blake just because we look like twins.
> 
> Turns out Kyle's a decent roomie. We're seriously duking it out at practice with Wheels since we all like covering the right. Wheels is speedier than you'd think to look at him (I know, kettle meet cauldron) but Kyle's got sweet moves, a natural on the wing. Maybe he's got the edge on defensive work? Yeah, okay, duh. I mostly just worry about my own play. Isn't it weird the way you just go cold sometimes? I'm having a crappy run of luck lately, just feeling out of sorts and playing like shit. Can't seem to click. 
> 
> Off the pitch Kyle's kind of quiet like me. He's noticed how much I write you and thinks it's funny how much I have to say when I don't have to talk. Stella likes him fine, and she's a good judge of character. (Wait, who's your favorite toad, Stella or me?) I'm just relieved we don't have to sleep in the big dorms anymore. Sixteen guys to a room is crazy. Third Wizarding War, coming to you live from Salem! Maybe they do it that way to weed out the weaker kids? It's seriously overcrowded here. The third year rooms are a huge improvement. I don't mind having other guys around but I think one roommate's my limit. I must be getting old.
> 
> Thanks for the _Stickhandling_. It can be hard to find copies around here, especially with the Finches doing so well right now. The lady at Basilisk Books says she never knows how many copies to order in, since local interest in Quidditch apparently zooms from zero to infinity and back again within the space of one match. You're lucky you get a chance to play with someone like Crosby. Do you think she really will make the World Cup squad next year? Maybe Canada will actually qualify this time (ha!)
> 
> Is the blonde thing a dig about Brittany? Because she and I are just friends, I swear. If you want to talk blondes, you should meet our Quidditch delinquent, Patty Kane. She's a shrimp with crazy curls and the most sleepy LYING eyes I've ever seen, because I've never known anyone to vanish with the Quaffle like she does. And yes, she wants to Chase on the right wing too. We're getting real crowded on that side of the pitch. Coach keeps trying to convince me to try out for Seeker—well I'm better than the Seeker we've got, that's for sure! Setright's always bawling me out for being a Snitchnip, but someone's got to give Skille a hint. It's like he's flying blindfolded. Whatever. I just want to have fun out there. Chasers rule! 
> 
> You better be at the airport to meet me in December—I'll be the guy quaking in his boots. Totally worth it though. It's been way too long.
> 
> Can't wait,  
>  Phil

> Dear Phil,
> 
> Your mom's a total softie! At least she restricts herself to one Howler a year. She should see what it's like here. Sid's dad is the absolute worst, always barging into the locker room at matches and challenging the coaches (and the players!!) to duels. Holy shit. He got banned from the island after the Sawbridge v Wenlock match but I bet he finds a way back over, even if he has to swim the strait. If they leave Sid off the World Cup squad there'll be hell to pay.
> 
> Your coach sounds like an idiot to me. Uncoachable? That just means he's the one screwing up, not you. Just keep playing your game and doing your best. AND YOUR GAME IS SCORING NOT SEEKING QUIT THAT SHIT OKAY.
> 
> Nealer made the line and I didn't, but I've decided to let him live. Think of the paperwork! (is what my dad always says.) It's frustrating but almost a relief. I feel like shit lately. I had to spend a few days in the infirmary, did I tell you? So boring. There's so much homework to catch up on it's crazy and I can't muster energy for any of it. I don't know why every teacher has to demand three feet of drivel each week. Good thing I've had a lot of practice writing!  
>  I wish I could go to school with you, so I could look out for you. No one would pull anything on my watch.
> 
> Argh, Justin just came by our room and told me to go the fuck to sleep (who died and made him Head Boy?) so I'm putting down my quill and going the fuck to sleep.
> 
> Can't wait for Christmas, seriously.
> 
> Love, Tyler

Phil's parents couldn't afford to send all three kids to Canada for Christmas, so Phil was on his own. Brittany promised to see Blake and Stella home safely to Wisconsin, which soothed the worst of Blake's pangs about missing Justin and Tyler. Then she made out with Phil for a half hour in the broom closet before waving goodbye, which caused Phil some acute pangs of his own. Brittany was Muggle-born, the smartest and cutest third year at Salem. She loved Quidditch and football in equal measure, and her hair always smelled like Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum although he'd never caught her chewing any. She wanted him to visit her over the summer vacation so he could meet her parents and her pet dog. Phil wasn't certain why she liked him, but even the Jacks had to admit she did.

He explained right from her first stolen kiss in the back row of Pre-Arithmancy that he was subject to a magically binding contract. She nodded seriously—her mother was some big-shot Muggle lawyer—but said she wasn't looking for a lifetime commitment. "I'm only fourteen, Phil. I just want someone who'll go to the movies with me."

So they went to movies on weekends—after _The Fast and The Furious_ Phil was hooked on Muggle entertainment for life—and made out in the back row.

Kissing was kind of weird and Phil wasn't certain he was doing it right. Wheels said he was better off leaving Brittany in charge since Phil was (a) clueless and (b) Phil. When Phil asked Wheels why it hurt, Wheels looked at him blankly and said, "What? Your tender heart?"

"No, uh-" Phil shuffled his feet in supreme awkwardness. Maybe he should have asked Ryan, their best Beater. He was an older guy. Surely he had some romantic experience. Except Ryan might tell his dad, and his dad might tell Phil's dad, which meant Phil's mom might end up breaking her one Howler a year rule. No one wanted that mess on their hands.

"Speak up, child," said Wheels, affecting a priestly pose in his best academic robes. Too bad they were stained with Flobberworm mucus. "I'm here to help."

"My nuts. Uh. Kissing makes my nuts hurt."

"Ah, blue balls," sighed Wheels, as he brushed a fake tear from his cheek. "Our Phil's becoming a man."

"You think so?" Phil asked doubtfully.

"There's not a question in my mind," said Wheels. He took Phil by the shoulders and shook him. "Young man, trust in Brittany. The lady finds thee fair. With her tender hand will she guide thee through the treacherous shoals of puberty to the peaks and valleys of her fine form, and there wilt thou find relief for your poor balls."

"Uhh, okay," said Phil. 

Except Brittany suspected Phil of pressuring her for sex when he told her about his balls. "Wheels is an idiot," she said, as she pored over _The Boston Globe_ 's screen times. "He might be an excellent Chaser, but he's a terrible human being. There's no such thing as blue balls, we're well under the age of consent in both Massachusetts and Wisconsin, and there's a reason they keep wards on chapter 43 of _Advanced Potion Making_ until our senior year."

"There is?" He hadn't even realized their textbook had so many chapters.

"Philip, if and when I desire intercourse, you can rest assured I will take myself to the closest family planning clinic first," she said firmly. "God knows what our school nurse would suggest. He certainly hasn't heard about condoms."

"What are condoms?" Phil asked, just to hear her groan. Luckily Dave had warned him about condoms before he first left for Salem. Phil wondered if Tyler knew about condoms. He'd have to ask. Penis gloves sounded like just the sort of thing a knitting nut like Tyler needed to know about.

"You're a fourteen year old boy with a talented pair of hands. Surely you can find some comfort in them," she said. "Now listen, which sounds better: _Donnie Darko_ or _Thir13en Ghosts_?"

" _Donnie Darko_ , please. I'm sick of ghosts." Giles Corey was always wreaking havoc at Quidditch practice. He was more annoying than Wheels and the Jacks combined. "So how come we're allowed to sneak into R rated movies but not have sex?"

"Movies are just make-believe," said Brittany. "Sex is real."

 

There were other Salem students gathered in the Wizarding Departures lounge at Logan, but Phil was the only one heading to Saskatchewan. The sight of the small Beechcraft on the tarmac didn't fill him with confidence, but the other passengers weren't fazed. "Coming over for the big match, are you, hon?" asked one elderly witch. "You'll have a blast. Moose Jaw puts on a real show."

The pilot reminded everyone on board that in the event of an emergency, they must unbuckle their seatbelts immediately and grab the broomstick in their seat pocket. Phil was glad he'd brought along his Firebolt. The emergency broom looked like it had seen better centuries.

If his balls had felt sore back in the school broom closet with Brittany, the plane's lift-off made them crawl up inside his belly and play dead. Phil kept a white-knuckled grip on the Firebolt, his sole hope of salvation. It was hard to believe Tyler had made this trip when he just eight. This was no sane way to travel.

The flight took hours. Phil tried to pass the time reading _Quidditch Confidential_ but even tales of Firewhisky-fuelled riots and torrid affairs with bagpipe musicians couldn't distract him from the plane's inevitable destruction. "The pilots used to cheat, catch a 'lucky' tailwind to speed things along," said the businesswizard seated next to Phil, offering him a Ginger Bear. "The Muggles have gotten too nervous lately, so now Whizz sticks strictly to the timetable. Shame."

By the time the plane arrived at Regina International Phil was quivery with both nausea and nerves, and more than ready to fall into Tyler's welcoming arms. He couldn't seem to remember how to walk anyway.


End file.
